Monday, November 29, 2004

Little Debbie and Her Flying Bagels of Death

I have a big sister named Debbie. She lives in San Francisco with her genius pediatric cancer specialist husband who plays the guitar and her four-year-old son whose giggle absolutely cracks me up and her one-year-old daughter who is so cute and cuddly and perfect that I just want to pick her up and put her in my pocket and nibble on her cheeks for breakfast.

I don’t get to see my big sister and her family very often, but I saw her twice during the past week. We went to Starbucks on Saturday and while the barista was making decaf soy gingerbread lattes for our whole family, I told Debbie what a Dirty Sanchez is. Then we went to Trader Joe’s and she bought something called pumpkin butter, which falls just after llama shit and just before pig piss on the list of things I would want in my mouth.

Once, when we were teenagers, Debbie and I were having a typical brother-sister argument (I think I was ragging her about what a shitty flute player she was) and I said something especially mean and she chucked a frozen, stale bagel at me. It hit me in the eye, and I now believe you never really know how good a pitcher’s fastball is until it beans you in the melon. I was pissed, but I got Debbie back several years later when I recounted that story in my toast at her wedding and told her new husband that if there was one piece of advice I could give him about Debbie it’s that he should duck.

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Other Humans Write

Here are actual questions you asked the presidential candidates when they appeared on your show. To Bush: 'Were y'all spankers?" To Kerry: "Did you ever spank the girls?" To Bush: "Did you spank them?" To Kerry: "What did she do to get spanked?" Hey, Dr. Phil, keep it in your pleated pants. [GQ Magazine, Dec. 2004, pg. 372]